


The Other Ones

by hypereuni



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Geisha, Haruno Sakura-centric, Murder Mystery, No Uchiha Massacre, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Horror, Rating May Change, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 13:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13412712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypereuni/pseuds/hypereuni
Summary: No one really notices when the bodies of prostitutes from the Akasen appear in dumpsters, stuffed down drains and bobbing facedown in the river. Then come the clan killings, and people really start to get worried. Sakura-centric. AU.Cross-posted on FFN.net





	1. Chapter 1

The village of tree-huggers, outsiders call Konoha with a trace of venom in their voices. Softhearted fools, the lot of them (if anyone trained to take lives with impunity could be called so, that is). Konoha encourages the name-calling, because, well, it's not entirely false, and if their opponents can't see beneath the underneath, then the joke's on them, isn't it? Most people fail to see that Konoha, like any other ninja village, is pragmatic. The kindness that Konoha instills in its men and women, the mantra of love that it drums into their heads as schoolchildren as the Will of Fire, can be sharpened into the cruelest of weapons (those that have faced Uzumaki Naruto should know.) If it can improve teamwork, all the better; loyalty to one's unit is far more visceral and easier to understand than a merely abstract obligation to one's village.

There's a reason why you don't want Konoha on the other side of the battlefield. If Konoha were truly that powerless, it would have never existed at all: just another grassy slope, littered with broken weapons and rusting pieces of armor, flowers blooming above the bones of the dead. May they rest in peace.

But for all that Konoha wallows in its hero complex, its underdog mentality (which it should have outgrown decades before), there are far more gaping holes in its outside image than it cares to show. So it buries its dirty secrets deep within its seedy underbelly: in the lantern-festooned streets of the Akasen, within the smoky, dimly lit rooms of geisha and behind cobblestoned alleys where the street urchins huddle together for warmth. People tend to ignore the dark underground. The things that last in their minds are the Hokage Monument, glittering in the sun, the gleaming hospital building, and the practice grounds full of rambunctious children. It is in man's nature to seek the light. No one, after all, wants to stay in the dark for long.

Konoha boasts of its children, of its charismatic leaders, beautiful kunoichi, lethal assassins and competent healers. The Yellow Flash, now long dead and gone in a blaze of light worthy of his moniker. The Slug Princess, the last of Konohan royalty, purple diamond flashing in the center of her forehead. The Copy Ninja, possessor of over a thousand jutsu and counting, most of them stolen with a borrowed eye.

There is no mention of the Other Ones. If the ninja above are considered as the children of the light, of the god Izanagi, then the Other Ones are the progeny of his wife Izanami: the ones consigned to the shadows of their shining brethren. Uchiha Madara is one such individual: the shadowy co-founder of Konoha, name and history forgotten in the annals of time, rightful position usurped by a dear brother and friend. There are others in the otherworld, both dead and still-living: Shimura Danzo, Orochimaru…the list goes on and on. There is no doubt that some of them may even surpass the capabilities of Izanagi's brood, but Konoha takes no chances.

What Konoha fears, it quietly sweeps under the rug. The appropriate channels are covertly blocked, targets are eliminated and whole passages in history books are inked out. Records are burned. Chains are placed, and doors are sealed shut.

But chains tend to break over time, and like all beasts, things in the dark seek to free themselves of their confines.

Sooner or later, the Other Ones will rise.

AN: I'm trying to branch out into different genres, so I would love to hear your thoughts!


	2. Chapter 2

The men (and occasionally, women) who frequent the red-light district call it the _Akasen_ , without any pretense or frills. The Akasen caters to diverse and eclectic tastes: bright neon signs brazenly tout sexual services couched in suggestive euphemisms directly across from a battered-looking  _ochaya_. The traditional  _okiya_ , where the few geisha of Konoha live, are fenced off from the rest of the more modern Pink Salons and clubs and host and hostess clubs that have popped up in recent years. It's mostly the aging geisha and the upstart madams that embarrassingly insist on calling the Akasen the Konoha  _hanamachi_ , even if there is too few geisha to justify the name. For the madams, it's a matter of business, of selling their goods for a higher price; for the geisha, it is a matter of pride and hurt dignity. How else can they nurse their wounds as they watch helplessly, powerlessly as they watch former customers walk away on the arms of call girls clad in short, short skirts that leave nothing to the imagination?

The geisha that remain, though, have adapted to the times remarkably well with their usual aplomb. The former number one of the Konoha hamamachi, Katsuchiyo, still as slender and silver-tongued as she was at her debut seven years ago, now teaches kunoichi (and the odd male) all that she knows of the geisha arts. The proud, disdainful girl from back then would have turned away all of her current visitors before they reached the front entrance. But times have changed, and if the ryō the ninja give her for the lessons can tide her and the other girls of the okiya for another month and shut Hanako okā-sama's mouth for once, well, what else can she do, as a has-been without a patron?

Katsuchiyo, though, is an exceptional case, spared because of her renowned beauty and grace. Other geisha, including her own protegé Mebuki are less fortunate, reduced to mere prostitution to survive. It's degrading to resort to this last step, and all of the years of hard work and effort put into honing one's skills, be it plucking the cat-gut strings of the shamisen with raw, cut fingers or arranging the flowers just so, for the viewing pleasure of a particular customer, hang heavy on their shoulders. But although they cannot afford the luxury to wax and pin their hair in elaborate styles, and even though their customers now require a very different set of skills, many of the geisha wear little reminders of their glory days: a gold hairpin from a former admirer, a treasured kimono from a chest of old memories. A memento from the onēsan that taught them their skills.

Mebuki's reminder of a better past is in her daughter's name. Katsuchiyo refuses to give up her professional name solely out of pride, but Mebuki takes up her old name (a rustic-sounding one, she knows, one redolent of the fields heavy with golden grain where she spent her early childhood, but it's the only thing she has to remember the parents that sold her to the okiya) and gifts her geisha past to her newborn child.

"Sakura is such a common name," sniffs Hanako okā-sama, before Katsuchiyo-onēsan shuts the old woman up with a glare. Katsuchiyo gives the bundle of joy in her former protegé's arms a cautious once-over.

"She looks more like a squirming bean than a flower, but it's a suitable name for the child, imoutō," she says finally. There hasn't been any children born in the okiya in years, with the steady decline of customers, and it's the first time the young women have seen such a young child. Mebuki smiles a little tearfully at her mentor, and Katsuchiyo crumbles in front of her crying face, as always. "Stop that nonsense. If you keep on wailing like that, I won't have any more linen to spare," she says gruffly, but gives Mebuki her handkerchief anyway.

Sakura has Mebuki's heart-shaped face and a tuft of soft candy-floss hair that peeps from under the thin blanket that covers her head. Little Sakura's pink hair is closer to the strawberry-blond shade of Mebuki's father than to Mebuki's own sandy-blonde hair; the father, of course, is unknown. Hanako okā-sama, who has a penchant for putting her foot in her mouth at inopportune moments, remarks about the profits that Sakura will bring the okiya with her unusual coloring but shuts up when Katsuchiyo fixes her with another deadly glare. "Stuff it, you old hag," she threatens, before turning to the pale woman lying on the floor with the child cradled in her arms. "Rest, imoutō. I'll take care of the expenses for this month—I have a few more lessons scheduled today. Hanako bā-chan will be here if you or Sakura need anything." She jerks her thumb toward the old woman, who mutters something under her breath about uppity worthless chits, before rising to her feet. The old woman departs shortly afterwards, casting malevolent looks at the young mother and her child before tottering out of the tatami room.

* * *

 **Notes**  (courtesy of Wikipedia):

Akasen—literally means "red-line." Until 1958, it was used to refer to a red-light district.

hanamachi—"flower town." District where geisha entertained.

ochaya—teahouse where geisha entertained

okiya—boarding house for geisha

okā-san—literally "Mother." Term for the owner of the okiya, who handles all of the geisha's expenses. Training is expensive, and the geisha is expected to repay her okāsan through the earnings she makes.

onēsan—every geisha apprentice (maiko) has an older geisha or a maiko that trains her in everything she needs to know to become a full-fledged geisha (serving tea, making conversation, etc).

Katsuchiyo—"victorious eternity"

Mebuki—"shoot"

* * *

AN: Thoughts? Lemme know.


	3. The Stray

Even with the passage of six long years, the Akasen District isn't much to look at in the daytime. The darkness within its walls, the sins Konoha hides, slumber until the glimmer of dusk appears on the horizon. Strings of unlit lanterns swing forlornly in the breeze; the slotted wooden doors of the palaces of pleasure remain tightly shut. Without the veil the night provides, its flaws are glaringly apparent; there are chunks of cobblestone missing from the paved roads, and the drains are clogged with refuse and the soggy remains of cheap party favors. The overwhelming, slightly sour scent of cheap perfume and alcohol from the previous night's debauchery still hangs in their air like a foul cloud.

Although most of the Akasen is deep in slumber, there is still much work to do before the festivities begin at dusk. The servant girls, dressed in ragged clothes, creep out from hidden passageways to sweep away the traces of the previous night in preparation of what is to come.

A stray cat, ribs visible underneath a ragged calico coat, follows one such girl carrying bags of garbage to the dumpsters in the alleyways behind the pleasure district. The feral strays tend to avoid the dumpsters; only the luckiest of the scavengers can glean lean leftovers and dregs of weak gruel. Most of them prefer to skulk around the river near the outskirts of the district. Unlike the ones who nose through the trash heaps, the strays by the river are noticeably plump. The reason for their health goes unspoken by the locals, but when customers who frequent the bars and brothels go missing every once in a blue moon, the Uchiha police officers have learned to scour the riverbank for whatever is left of the bodies. 

There is little kindness given freely in the Akasen, and the stray that follows the servant child as she struggles with her burden does it more out of boredom than out of any expectation of food or charity. It sits back on its haunches and idly watches as the small child hefts the bulky garbage bags on her small shoulders. She's shorter than the dumpster bin, and she barely manages to hoist the bags into the containers by standing on the tips of her toes. The stray is hungry, but it's more entranced by the girl's hair, when for a brief moment, the alleyway is illuminated with sunlight and the pale, washed-out pink blushes into a more vibrant hue.

The Akasen relies on cheap tricks, smoke and mirrors, to maintain its illusion of eternal beauty and grandeur. This girl's hair is nothing like the coiffed, perfumed hairdos and elaborately decorated wigs that the aging geisha continue to don. It's unkempt and long, stringy with grease and soot after long hours of standing in front of the coal-lit burner in the basement of the okiya. When the rays of sunlight glance upon the child's head, however, it lights up like a pink halo. It's beautiful in a rough way that is reminiscent of fresh, untouched snow on the rooftops on a cold winter morning. Nothing else in the Akasen is quite able to match its innocent loveliness. 

But of course, nothing stays pure and unsullied in the Akasen for long. There is a reason why good little boys and girls are forbidden by their parents from even looking at the red fluted gates fencing the Akasen. It's because the gates are not meant to keep outsiders from coming in; they are meant to keep things from coming out of the bowels of the Underworld.

Things that thrive on destruction, on ruination, on death.

 

For instance, like the thing lurking in the shadows that watches the girl from a distance.

* * *

AN: Edited on 1/22/18.  


End file.
